Dear Family,
I'm slowly getting settled in. Let me start with a few random observations, in no particular order.
The currencies used here are the US dollar, the Jordanian dinar (or JD), and the Israeli shekel. Dollars are
accepted at tourist spots, salaries are paid in JDs, and shekels are for everyday use. (The JD = about 1.25
US dollars; the shekel = about .25 US dollars.) Since the oldest currency I've used up to this point is the
British pound, I'm amazed to be buying things in an ancient coin I've read but never before seen or touched--
and I smile when I think about purchasing, say, electronic goods in sheckels. ("How many shekels for this
flash drive? And for that iPod?")
As you might imagine, by US standards things here are pretty inexpensive. Ten pieces of pita bread cost me
the equivalent of a dollar, and the rent on my enormous furnished apartment--which features a living room,
a dining room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and TWO bedrooms--is $350 a month.
Speaking of the apartment, my landlady introduced herself as Madame Madeleine Mauge. Her name is only
one of the many amazing, stranger-than-fiction aspects of my life here. Mdm. Mauge is a tiny woman in her
late sixties who speaks Arabic, English, and (naturellement) French. She assured me that should the water
be shut off--which, I understand, sometimes happens--she'll provide water from her very own well. She's
very sweet, but I also think she's a canny businesswoman. Everybody in town seems to know her. When I
mention where I'm living, they say, "Ah, yes. Madame Mauge's place." There are several apartments in this
building (which, like everything else here, is made of white stone), and my upstairs neighbor Dennis (whom
I haven't met yet) is another American teaching at Bethlehem U.
A few remarkable things about the apartment:
The stove. It's attached to a gas tank, and I can't quite figure out how it works. One morning I attempted to
brew some espresso using an Italian machineta; but though I got one burner to work for a few seconds, when
the smell of gas began to permeate the kitchen I quickly realized that I was likely to blow up the whole
building and desisted. No doubt Madame Mauge will teach me.
The washing machine. It's German. (The one the Brothers have, you might recall from my previous message,
is French and temperamental; it also takes forever to do a load of laundry--being, in its Gallic way, not
inclined to overwork.) I'm sure this German washer cleans very thoroughly indeed. No doubt it's extremely
efficient. (BTW, since there's no dryer in the apartment I hang things outside to dry.)
The window shutters. They come down like those metal gates in front of stores at the shopping mall (though
they're made of tough plastic). They drop quickly and with considerable force--enough, I'd guess, to crush a
wrist or pulverize a finger.
The satellite TV. Perhaps assuming that, being an American, I would want to watch lots of TV, Madame
Mauge was very anxious to have her handy nephew (or grandson, I'm not sure which) install it. I didn't have
the heart to tell her that I didn't care about watching TV. (I did care very much about Internet service; but
when she offered to look into a dial-up connection for the apartment I politely told her not to trouble
herself.) Install the TV they did--while I was sleeping off my jet lag, as it turned out. (I stumbled out of
bed--fortunately I had fallen asleep in my clothes--to discover Madame observing said nephew/grandson
laboring over cables and whatnot.) I figured I might as well check it out, and within minutes I was utterly
transfixed, mouth agape.
The satellite picks up stations in France, Italy, Britain, Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Bahrain, Afghanistan, Greece,
Cyprus, Turkey, Israel, Syria, Sudan, Spain, Oman, Kuwait, Yemen, Russia, Romania, Portugal, Poland,
Germany (specifically, Heidelberg und Bavaria, and a channel called Kaiserslautern), the UAE, Kurdistan (!),
Iran, Iraq, and who knows where else. There are 700 channels available, and when I went through each and
every one of them (which took about two hours) I discovered a TV babel: soap operas in Arabic (they look
like telenovelas but--believe it or not--they appear to be even more ridiculous and extreme); news in Farsi,
French, Italian, etc. (including, of course, Al Jazeera in Arabic and English); game shows and talk shows
featuring men in traditional Arab garb and women in hijab; episodes of The Simpsons in French and Arabic;
House Swap subtitled in Arabic; a channel called Space Toon Arabic, which features old commercials (e.g.,
Tom and Jerry) in French; commercials so surreal I can hardly describe them (my favorite one features two
women in hijab who meet in the market and begin discussing a particular brand of milk; in a moment,
they're transported into a hallucinogenic dream-world where everything is milky white).
A few other noteworthy aspects of life here:
Five times a day I hear the call of the muezzin coming from a minaret in a nearby refugee camp.
(I'd elaborate on that sentence, but I think it needs no embellishment.)
I live within a five-minute walk of both said refugee camp and the Israeli "separation barrier" (a.k.a.
the monstrous--in both senses of the word--and graffiti-covered Berlin-style wall). These topics
deserve an entire blog and blogette of their own. For now, suffice it to say that I feel like I'm
experiencing history as it unfolds--as I did when I visited Ground Zero in December of 2001.
In the morning I see outside my kitchen window a man pushing a cart full of pita bread up the street.
Most--but by no means all--of the women here wear hijab; the men wear stylish (in their own way)
western clothes.
Dogs and cats are generally not kept as pets. There are guard dogs outside some homes, however,
and wild cats roam the alleys and vacant lots.
The Brothers warned me that Bethlehemites like to set off firecrackers (for weddings, and for
any reason at all), and that I shouldn't be alarmed. I laughed and explained that people in Chicago
do the same (though fireworks are illegal there).
Soda cans here still have removable pop-tops of the sort I haven't seen since I was a child. When
I expressed shock at this ("Animals can swallow those and die!"), people seemed unfazed.
People here are astonishingly warm and hospitable. (I should note before providing some instances
of this hospitality that I've yet to interact with younger women--though I have had long and
fascinating conversations with older women who teach at the university. Those who work in the
markets, hang out in the squares, etc. are all men.)
A few examples:
When I bought some bread this afternoon (hot from the oven--though not, as she warned me, as
good as Amto Suhaila's), the teenager who sold it to me asked, "Where are you from?" I told him,
"Chicago," and he repeated it softly: "Chicago." Then he put his palm over his heart and said,
"Welcome. Welcome."
Two nights ago when I walked into a cafe called Bonjour a few blocks from the university, the
twenty-something man who waited on me asked where I was from, and why I had come to
Bethlehem. When I told him, his eyes lit up. He grasped my right hand in both of his own and
said, "My name is Elias. Anything I can do for you, you tell me. Welcome, teacher, welcome!"
(Both professors and foreigners are held in very high regard here.)
Last night in Manger Square I approached a group of men in their teens and twenties who were
smoking a nargileh and asked them if I might photograph them. They not only consented but
invited me to join them--so I found myself standing in Manger Square, yards away from the
supposed birthplace of Baby Jesus, sharing in a hookah and a bottle of orange soda. Some
members of the security force came by to sample the hookah, and they also allowed me to take
their picture.
More later...
Love,
Jamil
